


Leap

by orphan_account



Series: Leap 'verse [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheerleaders, Domesticity, F/F, First Dates, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Second person POV, University of Louisville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-08 12:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12253992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Brittany looks at the world with so much positivity. You’ve never been like that, always expecting the worst out of life. You expect other people to fail you, and lately? You feel as though you’ve been failing yourself the most.Brittany helps you realize failure is all about perspective.College AU, Santana and Brittany meet for the first time at the University of Louisville





	Leap

Your name is Santana Lopez, you're a competitive college cheerleader, and lately all you've done is lie in bed with your best friend.

 

“I used to think that life was this steady uphill climb. You get the house and the wife and the kids, and if you’re lucky your kids don't hate you and your wife isn't disgusted by you by the time you're retired. But have you ever felt like your life is in backwards freefall? I mean this time last year, I was _that_ bitch. I'd just gotten my scholarship, I came out of the closet, I met J. Lo at a strip club in Las Vegas and she told me I reminded her of a young Selena, Quintanilla, not Gomez _, and_ I'd just finally told that cretin Sue Sylvester where to shove it, to much applause and fanfare from the Cheerios. I had _everything._ Now I can’t even remember what my class schedule is, I’ve spent most of my graduation money on shoes, yesterday I found myself in the middle of a rant to this girl who cut me off in the Chick-Fil-A line and I didn't even remember starting shit with her, and I basically completely lack the motivation and critical thinking skills for everything I have to do."

 

Brittany glances up from between your thighs.

 

"Yeah, me too,” she says encouragingly, smiling.

 

You also didn't used to talk this much during sex.

 

While usually the quiet blonde you met just two months before this keeps her eyes on what she's doing as she works you, right now she has those blue stunners open, staring up at you.

 

You pause your ranting to take in the moment, take in her. The butterflies in your stomach are fluttering wildly at her image. You didn’t used to get butterflies. She's killing you softly.

 

"What?" you say to her.

 

"Nothing." Brittany licks her lips. "You just talk a lot. I like it."

 

You've always considered yourself too talkative for your own good. You own the fact that you can roast anyone on the fly if you need to, that you speak Spanish so fast and cuttingly you get your way pretty much instantly when you weild it. But sometimes you wish you could control it a little better. You have what’s probably the worst case of word vomit in the world.

 

Or at least, you thought you did, until you met Brittany. She’s the first person you’ve ever met who can always out-weird you. People stare at her like she has four heads with unicorn horns ninety percent of the time she speaks her mind. That’s because she sees the world through this zany filter that you’re convinced looks like the illustrations from Dr. Seuss books.

 

“Damn it.” She pauses again beneath you to sigh, though she still smiles. “I forgot to set my DVR to record Adventure Time. Sometimes I have dreams that I’m Finn and my cat is Jake. The Land of Ooo is like that summer I did acid in fourth grade.” 

 

When you met her, the August you moved in to the dorms to start pre-season practices, you weren’t sure she liked you much. Even though she was a freshman, she was immediately chosen as a peer instructor for your dance routines. The second week of hell week, she led your thirty person squad in a lesson on crumping that practically made your mouth water. Not because you’re particularly moved by the style of dance, but because Brittany, for all that she’s shy, doe-eyed and awkward, can move her body like the legendary.

 

You finally worked up the nerve to approach her in the locker room after that practice. “I gotta say, when I read the team bios and saw you were from a place literally called Hicksville, Kentucky, I thought, that _gringa_ is _not_ gonna know how to move it. But you’re good, like, _really,_ really good. Where the hell did you learn to dance like that?”

 

Brittany shrugged, not meeting your eyes and smiling as she quickly packed up her gym bag. “I don’t know,” she said so softly you almost couldn’t hear, “I taught myself.”

 

She hurried out of the room away from you just afterwards, and every conversation you tried to start was like that at first. Now that you’ve both gotten the jitters out of the way, you know that she was acting that way because you made her nervous. But you swore, at first, that you totally creeped her out.

 

“It’s like she can smell the predatory lesbian on me,” you’d lamented to Quinn Fabray via a Skype call. “I don’t wanna get gay with her, I mean _I do_ but it’s not like I’m gonna t _ell her_ , but for all I know she’s the straightest person on the planet.”

 

“You can’t possibly know that you until you ask,” Quinn chastised you. “Come on, why don’t you just ask her out?”

 

So you did, and you were honestly shocked that she’d said yes. An hour into burgers and beer at a pub in your college’s downtown, she made her confession:

 

“I’m sorry I can’t really look at you when we talk. You’re like the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life. When you asked me here I thought, I can’t believe a girl who looks like _her_ wants to go on a date with _me_.” She pressed her lips together then, cheeks burning red, and buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god,” she mumbled from behind them, “this is a date, right?”

 

You snatched her hands up in yours, finding them completely drenched in sweat and feeling relieved, because yours were just as bad.

 

“Yes, it is so totally a date,” you said to her.

 

She opened up then, blossoming wonderfully.

 

She told you everything she thought it was important for you know about her. You found out that she founded her own animal rescue charity when she was just thirteen. The non-profit organization “Brittany’s Kittanys” operates seven rescue shelters around Kentucky. She holds adoption events at least four times a week, organizing and upkeeping hundreds of profiles about dogs, cats, parakeets, and rodents.

 

“I also speak six languages,” she said to you on this note, “four of them exclusively to cats.”

 

“What’s the other human one, besides English?”

 

“Mandarin Chinese. I’m half.”

 

“Half Chinese?”

 

“I know I don’t look like it, but see?” She had her phone out and ready with a photo of she and her parents to show you, and you were damn sure that man wasn’t her blood. You didn’t tell her.

 

You found out that she can knit, she’d barely graduated high school but got a record twenty cheerleading scholarships due to her unsurpassed athleticism, she writes everything using the hundred pack of crayons she keeps casually in her purse, and she’s been in several Eminem music videos. “We keep in touch,” she said, “his daughter and I are friends.”

 

You found out that she wanted to have sex with you as soon as you stood outside your dorm room with her, kissing her goodnight.

 

After your lip lock, she held tightly onto your hand, swinging it, staring down at the carpet.

 

“Don’t you want me to come in?” she asked of you.

 

“Uh.” Like fuck if you ever did. She was gorgeous, funny, down-to-earth and _god_ was her body a work of art. “I mean, yeah, but I don’t want you to feel like I don’t respect you or anything. It _is_ our first date.”

 

She brought your hand up to her lips, pulling one of your fingers in and sucking on it playfully.

 

“You showed me an amazing time,” she said, her voice low. “It would only be polite for me to thank you.”

 

Two months into your whirlwind best-friends-with-benefits-ship, you see each other pretty much every single day. You and she connected after you realized how easy it was to just exist in the same space together, doing jack shit nothing and being boring housewives. Those are your favorite kinds of relationships with women, the kind that feel like extensions of your alone time. Brittany is a sounding board, an echo for your thoughts. You already feel like you were born in tandem with her.

 

But, you keep trying to tell yourself, she’s not your _girlfriend_. The prospect on getting clarity on that front makes you as nervous as she apparently was when she first met you. You haven’t asked her because besides her admission that the very first time it was a date, it’s still unclear to you where she stands in her sexuality.

 

You've never heard her mention a word or label to anyone, and she only calls you “friend” when she introduces you, so you begrudgingly follow suit. She practically knows everyone on campus, always getting invited to parties and functions and concerts, weird as she is and crazy as the things she says can be. She’s a popular figure regardless, known for her signature moves and infamous YouTube show _Fondue For Two_.

 

There are a million other people she could go out with besides you, you’re aware of this any time you two are out in public. Tonight after she catches the last half of Adventure Time, and you try humoring her through it even though you just don’t get it, you’re at a house party down the street from school, thrown by her male best friend Sam Evans. They grew up together in the same small town nowhere, and apparently still get along incessantly. When she’s not with you, or volunteers from Brittanys Kittanys, she’s with him and their old shared friend group.

 

You just know or at least assume the guy's in love with her. After twelve years spent beside a girl like that dirt biking and rough housing, how could he not be?

 

“I hate you for dragging me to a party,” you tell her as you stand amidst the crowded room of white people screaming and hankering over the going beer pong tournament. “I mean I needed the excuse to wear these Louboutins, but _zero_ of the frat boys in this room are worthy of seeing me in them.”

 

“C’mon, we hadn’t left your room in three days,” Brittany says. “Parties are fun! We’re having fun!”

 

Sam comes bounding between the two of you suddenly, throwing his arms around you and squeezing you into a joint hug.

 

“Welcome, welcome, uh, glad you could make it,” he says to Brittany in Barrack Obama’s voice. He _does_ not know you well enough to be touching you, so you try and convey this to him with a stank face. When you peel his arm off, he’s too wrapped up in talking with Brittany to even notice.

 

“Oh my god, did you see the new Adventure Time?” she says to him.

 

“Dude, don’t spoil me, I’m so behind!”

 

“Unacceptable.”

 

“When ‘Louisiana Kick’ comes on tonight,” he still has his arm around her absently toying with her hair, and you’re seeing flames, “you so owe me a dance, by the way.”

 

“I know, I know, I got you.”

 

He turns to you, bringing her in closer to his chest. “This girl can line dance like nobody I’ve ever _seen!_ ”

 

“I bet.”

 

You spent the entire party trying not to shadow her so closely, but refusing to branch out and try to make any friends for yourself. When the line dancing commences, you back off like a wallflower, wanting to die little bit whenever she and Sam make eye contact. She could very well have a brotherly connection to him, but you can’t tell; the way she nestles her chin up against him whenever they talk is a catlike gesture you think she does with everyone.

 

Besides, most people don’t end up wanting to be your friend, in your experience. It’s why you’re so loyal and clingy with the few you manage to find.

 

Quinn chastises your behavior again when you Skype call her angstily about Sam.

 

“Just like I tell you _every_ single time you have this problem,” she says, “you just have to ask her.”

 

“I don’t wanna know,” you say. “The thought of that big-lipped frog with his hands on her at any point in her life makes me wanna commit murder. He’s nice though, perfectly fucking nice, all Southern hospitality and gentlemanly and shit. That’s what makes it even worse.”

 

You know, you know that you have no right to feel possessive. But it hurts, it always has, being the lesbian who gets attached. The kind who falls in love with girls like Brittany at first sight, girls all sunshine and happiness and rainbows and positivity. You’ve been known to plan weddings with women who’ve done as little as say two words to you. You are the walking, talking embodiment of that stereotype about the U-Hauls, and you hate it.

 

High school was so devastatingly hard because you craved a deeper intimacy with women so much and so badly, that you reacted to them never feeling as passionately you did by being mean. You pushed most away before they'd even had the chance to get close to you.

 

Brittany’s here, she’s here and she wants you but sometimes you fear she's way too close, so you ask her.

 

“Don’t you think your friend Sam’s just a _little bit_ in love with you?”

 

“What?” Brittany chuckles at this, running her hands through your hair as you lay your head on her chest. “No, no way, he’s like my brother.”

 

But two weeks later, at another one of his house parties, you get this feeling in your gut like you just can’t believe her.

 

“He is so flirting with you,” you argue, and you’re bringing it up and word vomiting again because you’re drunk. “He can’t possibly hug you and be all up on you that much and _not_ be flirting with you.”

 

“Me and him are just like that,” she says back. “When you’ve known someone since you were just a little kid, you don’t really feel that weird about body stuff. I mean.” She laughs a bit, drunk off of the beer in her red cup herself, sipping from it and licking her lips. “There was like, this _one_ time we kind of had sex. But it so, so didn’t mean anything.”

 

Your heart breaks then, worsened by the fact that she’s doing that thing where she can’t look at you.

 

“You didn’t think to tell me that when I asked you the first time?”

 

“You asked me if I thought he was in love with me. He’s not.”

 

“How could any man possibly have sex with you, _you,_ and not be in love?”

 

Brittany’s frowning now, finally meeting your eyes.

 

“Santana,” she says, “it was so long ago. We were fourteen, it was so stupid. We didn’t even like it, we laughed about it after.”

 

“You lied.” You start backing away from her. “I asked you if anything’s ever happened, and you lied to me.”

 

“That’s not what you asked me.” She tries holding your hands, but you yank them back. “People can have sex without love, it happens.”

 

This declaration from her sends your sensitive heart reeling, and you're weeping, and damn do you wish you hadn’t drank so much tequila.

 

“Well I’m glad I _finally_ know what your thoughts on sex are,” you say. “Glad that I can just be your _sex_ whenever you need it.”

 

“Santana, no, what do you mean?” When you storm off, she calls after you. “Wait, please talk to me!”

 

The next day, you avoid her calls, don’t read her messages. Half because you’re embarrassed by your drunken outburst of tears, and half because you’re afraid she’s bi or straight.

 

You know you shouldn’t try to act like one of those gatekeepers, you know how gross it can be to only accept girls who are “gold stars.” It’s just that you’ve been burned so bad by girls who aren’t before, the ones who swear things with their on-and-off boyfriends are over. Only to find them at school the next day hand-in-hand with the guy, completely grossed out by you and “straight again,” cringing at the word “lesbian” the way the rest of the world does.

 

That night on the travel bus to your away game, you sit with other teammates, too emotional to face her. It becomes painfully obvious as you sit with them that Brittany is your only real friend on this team. The girls sitting around you pretty much ignore you, though it isn’t like you’re really paying attention to them, anyway. Brittany keeps attempting to pull your stubborn eyes to her with sad, longing looks.

 

The entire two hour bus ride, neither of you speak to anyone. Sit in the midst of all those other girls, pretending like you don’t just want each other. Her presence alone is pulling on each of your heartstrings, making you feel incredibly lonely without her recognition. You know that you should give her a chance, let her explain, but you just can’t take the possibility of more heartbreak.

 

Your angst knocks you clearly off your game athletically, like the pain in your heart has spread to your body. You feel sore, and none of the jumps you try are landing, and damn it, Brittany just _will not_ stop that staring.

 

The three-tiered stunt you’re supposed to pull off during the third quarter fails miserably, and you suffer for it. One wobble from a girl at the base on the first level skirts up to you all the way the top, and you’re rickety, struggling to keep your scorpion leg in your sweating hands, unable to focus. You lose it, tumbling forward and swiftly breaking your leg when you hit the turf.

 

Brittany instantly forces her way in through the chaos all around you, her face a light amidst the strange EMTs, trainers and coaches, her voice soothing through the blaring roar of the ambulance, and bickering crowd of opposing fans.

 

“I’m here,” she says as she hovers you, her eyes and cheeks drenched with tears. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

 

Coach is pissed when she insists on deserting mid-game to go to the hospital, threatening to pull her scholarship. “I don’t care,” you hear her say as they lift your stretcher, as your shin shoots sharp with pain, “go ahead, kick me off the team. Your dance routines will suck if you do.”

 

Hours later, you’re on bed rest, morphine coursing through your veins, your leg in a stint hoisted up above the bedsheets. Apparently she’s been just outside the entire time, finally being allowed to see you now.

 

She comes and sits in the single chair, looking worried and exhausted. She holds her hand out towards you and you take it in your weak one, exhausted yourself, and so sorry.

 

“I was an asshole,” you say, to which Brittany shakes her head, pressing the top of your hand to her lips just so. “I didn’t even give you the chance to explain yourself. With Sam. I’m just scared. Scared and insecure because I’ve never felt like this before.”

 

You’re an out lesbian now, but it was a long time coming. It was a lot of things that kept you closeted out of fear, mostly that your abuela would hate you because of it. When you finally told your parents your senior year, they made you wonder what you’d had to worry about, supportive even if the kids at school had always been cruel. But your abuela was aggressive in her distaste. She kicked you out of her house just days before your graduation, and you’d had to stay with Quinn all summer.

 

You finally tell this story to Brittany, there in the hospital.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, “about the bullying, your abuela. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

 

“Yeah, but I repress it and lash out at other people because of it. Like I just did with you. And you don’t deserve that.”

 

“The thing with Sam was," she says now, "I didn’t like boys at all, but I wanted to be  _sure_ that I didn't. So we tried it. Literally, I couldn't get through it without laughing. Really I was just sad because I knew, 'okay, this is it. You're different.' It was horrible and awful that I used him. But he forgave me, and he understands. We're over it. So, I am gay, just like you. I just made this one mistake."

 

"No, you shouldn't think about that as a mistake. It was an important part of your journey."

 

She looks so relieved, and you squeeze her hand within yours as much as you can.

 

"I think I was so upset because I just wanna know," you say, your tears still ever falling, "am I your girlfriend?"

 

 "Of course you are." Brittany kisses your hand incessantly. "Did you think you weren't?"

 

"Well, you always introduce me as your friend."

 

"We are friends. But, I guess I do see your point. So, Santana Lopez, I will tell everyone I meet, every day from now on, that you're my girlfriend. Proudly so."

 

 

 

It’s not that you’re kicked off the team, but that it doesn’t make sense for you to continue with the extent of your injury.

 

“We’re more than happy to have you try out again next year,” your coach says, “and of course, we will uphold the rest of your scholarship for this year. But should you find that you’re unable to resume the following season, I’m sorry, but your funding is cut.”

 

Brittany, despite her request for it, is not kicked off either, but placed on a light probation for her mouth-off.

 

You don’t care or miss the cheerleading much at all, and she doesn’t mind the even lighter workload either. She says that she would tell the coach the same thing again about her dance routines, if she could. Now you’re officially girlfriends, spending every minute of every day together that you can, as if you didn’t already. You’re on crutches but Brittany makes life as easy as she possibly can, carrying things and holding your doors for you. Quinn eventually meets her on Skype, and promptly loves her.

 

Brittany makes sure to invite you to play off your injury doldrums at all of her events with her animal rescue charity. She’s extremely organized and passionate, running the show of volunteers even though she’s the youngest of them. Even you, who generally hates animals, can’t help but feel inspired and cured by her overflowing love of puppies and kittens.

 

One night, you’re feeling especially angsty about the fact that your cast has disallowed you to show your real fashion sense. Despite the eyesore of your busted leg, Brittany helps you into one of your favorite cocktail dresses to show you that you’ll still look good, a black sparkly number that hugs your curves. She loves it.

 

“But you see, I _have_ to wear heels with this,” you say. “It’s like, a mortal sin if I don’t.”

 

“Oh my god, you can wear a flat, it’ll look fine.” She bites her lip at you. “Lets go out tonight, and you wear this.”

 

The bar tonight is crowded, always is on Saturdays, and you hate the way people stare at you when you’re on your crutches. The way Brittany’s dressed up for you is making the challenge less frustrating. Still, you really feel pathetic limping up onto the barstool. You stay seated all night and Brittany stands between your legs with her arms around you as you two drink, cheering you up by giving you lap dances periodically.

 

Two straight men come around to hit on you two eventually, and the dense fucks think that you’re just friends even though you repeat several times, “my girlfriend and I,” in between all their annoying bragging.

 

“Oh my god,” Brittany whispers in your ear as they talk and talk at you, “these guys are so dumb, and that’s coming from _me._ ”

 

“If you’re done having girl talk,” one of them interrupts Brittany, putting his hand on her arm and attempting to pull her close, “my friend and I wanna get to know you, come on.”

 

“Do _not_ fucking touch her,” you snarl, pointing in his face. “You two bozos are lucky my leg is in a cast, or I would seriously fucking _end_ you. She and I are both gay. You two look like you crawled out of a dank hole in the Jersey Shore. Go away.”

 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

 

The man shoves you in the shoulder, you slip off of your barstool and without your crutches, you fall to the floor, paralyzed and embarrassed by your fear, the crowd that has started and noticed you. But Brittany instantly martial arts-es the guy to the ground, incapacitating him and shoving her palm up at the bridge of his nose, making it explode in blood.

 

You two promptly get kicked out of the club.

 

You laugh bated and breathless as she carries you away bridal style, your crutches pitched under her arm.

 

“That was _so_ badass, you should have your own franchise with Marvel, you’re such a hero, _my_ hero, fuck.”

 

But then you’re crying suddenly, the fear from that moment realizing itself and bursting through your adrenaline, causing you to collapse against her shoulder.

 

“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” she says, “we’re safe now.”

 

“I know, I know that guy is just some asshole we’ll never see again, but it sucks, Brittany. It sucks that no one takes us seriously just because we’re girls. It really sucks.”

 

That night, you stay up until four in the morning detailing your somewhat traumatic histories with men. Men who groped you on busses when you were too young to understand, that one relative each of you has who’s known to prey on girls in his own family. It’s an especially hard conversation for you because this is your life’s passion, the one issue you feel so deeply empathetic about, it makes you miserable.

 

“I just don’t get it,” you sobbed as she stroked through your hair, not one tear falling from her yet, she was so strong. “How could God let it be like this for us? For thousands of years, it’s been the way of the world. That men just _get_ to have control.”

 

“I don’t care what anyone says,” Brittany says to you, “that’s not God’s work. He wants us to be equal and safe. We will be.”

 

Brittany looks at the world with so much positivity. You’ve never been like that, always expecting the worst out of life. You expect other people to fail you, and lately? You feel as though you’ve been failing yourself the most. Brittany helps you realize failure is all about perspective.

 

By December, you’ve realized you’re about to flunk out of school.

 

The University of Louisville has never been your forever place. You’re only going here because you got a scholarship. But you die inside thinking about crawling back to Lima, Ohio, as if you have a choice; you’ve already missed two finals. That shitty wasteland made you feel so stuck and depressed. Brittany points out helpfully, “Kentucky’s also a shitty wasteland.”

 

“I can’t move back home and afford an apartment by myself. Quinn would take me in until I could, but I couldn’t stand being her and Judy’s charity case again.”

 

“So, I’ll move there with you.”

 

You figure Brittany’s just waxing hypothetical at this, giving you a nice thought to make you feel better. But when stares at you silently afterwards, longing and serious and sure, you know she meant it.

 

“What? That’s crazy, you can’t just pick up your entire life and leave. You’re still in school.”

 

Brittany shrugs. “No, I’m flunking too.”

 

“Wait, you weren’t being serious when you said you had a 0.5 GPA, were you?”

 

“0.6.” She fist pumps.

 

And the thought of her struggling through her classes, that beautiful mind speaking itself to an audience full of judgey academics, makes you feel guilty. Like you should’ve been doing more to protect her, or find her resources. _How didn’t I catch this?_ you think over and over. _I’m a terrible girlfriend,_ _I’m shit_. Though it wasn’t like Brittany had kept you from flunking either.

 

You know this isn’t the place for a mind like hers, at least not now.

 

Brittany was first and foremost a doer. The active kind of person too concerned and too hands-on to be confined to the intellectual mind prison of the classroom. The animal rescue charity, her real work in the world, took up whatever time she wasn’t spending on the field, anyway.

 

“So, we’ll go to Lima together,” Brittany says again. “My parents will keep sending money no matter what I do. Let’s get an apartment and adopt like, seventeen cats and name them after those all telenovela stars.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Brittany puts her hands in yours, and you’re already tearing up, in anticipation of her next confession:

 

“I know for a fact, Santana, that we’re soul mates. This is it. I don’t wanna run anymore.”

 

She brings a hand to her face to wipe your tears, and you just melt. “We’ve only known each other four months," you say, "we can’t just—”

 

But when Brittany looks at you like that, you swear you would leap from cliffs or even wilder, if she asked.

 

“We _can_ just,” Brittany asserts kindly. “I love you, and you love me, so this will work.”

 

 

 

 

This is the first time you’ve ever had a girlfriend to bring home. Your mother is as supportive as she always has been, helping the two of your furnish your apartment the day you get into town. She and Brittany get along just wonderfully, their similar senses of humor meshing.

 

But your mother tells you that your abuela still hasn’t budged on her opinion, and says not to expect it.

 

“She’s so wrong,” your mother says, “I try to tell her every day how wrong she is for this. But you know how she is, pride is the most important thing to that woman. She has so much pride in her religion. More than in all of us.”

 

That night in your new place, you cry for your constant loss, and Brittany holds you all the way through it.

 

“She loves you,” Brittany reminds you softly. “She does, even if she’s confused. She does.”

 

You don’t know if she will ever accept the way you love, but you do know that Brittany’s love is endless and sure. Just knowing each other four months, it isn’t perfect, and cohabitating’s a challenge. But all the while, you remember how both always felt at the start. Like what had you could be so great, so monumental and earth-shattering, that at first you couldn’t look it in the eye, it terrified you.

 

Fighting that fear has made you both stronger.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I plan on this being the beginning of a 'verse. The next shot will be a self-indulgent Jane The Virgin crossover in which Jane is Santana's cousin, and Alma Lopez is Alba Villanueva's sister. The fact that the same actress plays both grandmas is just like, BEGGING me to write the fic
> 
> Anyway, this will pick up when I write that!


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